Out of Sight, Out of Mind
by Adalanta
Summary: COMPLETE PostNicodemus. Martha accidentally finds Clark's bulletriddled shirt shoved under his bed and confronts him about it, only to bring out the painful truth that he has tried so hard to hide.
1. Part One

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters – I'm just borrowing them for a little bit. 

Author's Note: This is my first _Smallville_ fanfic. I have to admit, I just started watching the show and have only seen three episodes. However, I was instantly intrigued and have fallen in love with the show and all of its characters. Please, please leave me a review and let me know how I'm doing or send me an email personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. 

This story will be in two parts and takes place a few days after the events of "Nicodemus."

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Part One

A symbol of ultimate betrayal.

It's amazing what one simple, everyday object can represent. How much it can…hurt…to just look at it.

Parents are supposed to protect their children – it's been their job since the beginning of time. Raise them, teach them, protect them…and die for them if necessary. And his parents would, he knew that, but – still…it was hard to look at it without remembering that heart-rending incident, without seeing what had happened like a movie stuck on pause.

The day it had happened, he'd been completely stunned, the incident so incomprehensible that he'd buried it in the back of his mind, barricaded it deeply behind the concern and fear he felt for his father's condition, caused by a then-unknown, mysterious illness. Physically, he'd hidden the evidence, grabbing a dark coat that was in the blue pickup truck and zipping it nearly up to his neck. He wasn't ready to face what had happened, and he didn't want his mother asking any questions. 

It was too painful to accept. 

Later on when he'd finally made it back home, he'd literally shoved it under his bed – as far back as possible – thinking in some strange, detached way that the darkness would swallow it up and erase the image from his mind.

After all, out of sight, out of mind.

As far as he was concerned, it could stay that way forever. And that did work…for a while. 

What he hadn't counted on was his mother.

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Martha Kent slowly climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse, holding the overflowing basket of clean clothes in front of her, being careful not to overbalance and tumble backwards down the steps. It wouldn't be the first time, of course. That memorable and painful event had left her with a sprained ankle and wrist and a terrified little seven-year-old, who'd practically lifted her with one hand and carried her to the couch. She was not in a hurry to repeat that accident, nor the disconcerting feeling of being carried by her little boy. _If you just watch where you're going, it won't happen again,_ she told herself. 

Clearing the stairs, she took a second to glance down at the basket she held. The blue jeans, white t-shirts, and various other colors of flannel shirts created a rainbow that she held captive in her own two hands. She couldn't help but smile at the whimsical thought. _I think Clark's writing skills are starting to rub off on me. _Shaking her head slightly, she entered her son's room, upended the basket on his single bed, and proceeded to quickly fold the laundry, leaving it in three neat stacks on the quilt, all the while wishing that some of her skills would rub off on him. _Like the ability to do the laundry,_ she thought wryly. 

When she'd finally finished, she grabbed the basket and went to leave…only to brush up against his bedside table and accidentally, knock off a glass that the teenager had left upstairs overnight. She held her breath as the glass flew through the air and hit the floor, waiting – cringing – for the glass to shatter in dozens of tiny shards.

Miraculously, it didn't break. 

What it did do, however, was roll right under Clark's bed.

"Oh, Clark," she muttered aloud as she knelt down on the hard floor, crouching on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant glass. "How many time have I told you to take your dishes downstairs?" she asked, exasperated. "A thousand and one times," she answered herself, grunting softly as she stuck her hand into the dark netherworld that was the space under her son's bed. "And I'm sure I'll repeat it another thousand more times by the time he leaves the house." She tried – without success – to see into the dark space and found herself briefly wishing for Clark's superhuman vision. "That would certainly make this easier."

She kept searching for the glass, her fingers feeling about like a blind person, mentally envisioning each object that she came into contact with: a couple of crinkly paper balls (_Earlier drafts of his latest English assignment, no doubt.)_; a too-small, old work boot _(So that's where the other one went to,_ she smiled_)_; and several dusty, old magazines (_Remnants of his fishing magazine collection, I suppose)_. Each object showed another aspect of her multi-faceted son's personality. _He's not as simple as he pretends to be, not even to us, his parents. Even though he's not from this planet, he still acts just like a typical teenager. _Still searching, her fingers stretched as far as humanly possible, waiting to feel the smooth, cool form of the drinking glass, but instead came into contact with a well-worn, flexible fabric. She couldn't stop but grimace that creased her face.

"Not again," she moaned, closing her eyes for a second before retracting her arm slowly to pull the offending piece of clothing out from under the bed. "Not another stained shirt. How am I supposed to clean it if he tosses it under here? How do I…" her voice trailed off as she got her first close look at the crumpled flannel shirt. But Martha wasn't looking at grass stains or oil stains.

She was looking at bullet holes. A lot of them. Right in the middle of his chest.

 "What the – ?" she gasped and abruptly sat down on the bed before her shaking legs could collapse on their own. Grasping the red flannel in two white-knuckled, trembling fists, she stared with horror-stricken eyes at the ruined red shirt.

It took a while before the truth of what she was seeing finally sunk into her stunned mind and into her thumping heart.

Someone had…shot…her son.

_Oh, dear Lord,_ she repeated mentally over and over again. An invisible hand closed around her chest, clenching with all its mighty strength, and for a brief moment, she was afraid that the shock might be too much for her. She opened her mouth, gulping for air, and after a few frantic, never-ending seconds, her frozen lungs reluctantly obeyed her command, leaving her chest heaving, trying to make up for lost time.

Once she'd gotten her racing heart and panting lungs under control, her mind went into fifth gear creating questions that flew around her like a swarm of angry bees, each one stinging her mentally and yet bringing about a physical pain that nearly made her sick. _What happened? Why? Who had shot her son? When had it happened? Who would shoot Clark, the kindest and most considerate boy in all of Smallville? _She was too upset to think about his reaction if she were ever to repeat that last question a loud in his presence.

Then, swiftly on the heels of shock and disbelief, came anger. Not just at the shooter – who, right now, she could literally rip limb from limb, her anger was so great – but at her own son as well. She knew that the feeling was irrational, but it existed nonetheless. 

And that brought up the most important question: Why hadn't Clark told her?

She couldn't understand why he had kept such a thing from her, his own mother, or from his own father. As if the actual shooting wasn't terrifying enough, he had the added danger of his secret being revealed as well. That alone should have been enough of a reason to tell them. _I think I would notice if I shot someone in the chest, and he didn't die or bleed. For that matter, he probably wasn't even knocked down by the blast. Just a little strange, wouldn't you think?_ She clenched her teeth and fought to control the angry, sarcastic voice inside her head. _Get a hold of yourself, Martha. Sarcasm isn't going to help anything._

But as the anger slowly simmered down, she was still left with her overwhelming feelings of concern for her son's safety and frustration at his actions._ Oh, Clark…why didn't you tell us? How could you keep this from me?_

How long she sat there on the bed, she wasn't sure. It seemed like a long time – hours, even, but she didn't care, and honestly, it didn't matter. She held the bullet-riddled shirt in her hands and just stared at it with unseeing eyes, her fingers absently touching the holes, counting them, horror growing within as each new hole was discovered. _Twenty-Seven_, she concluded, the number shocking her enough to truly focus once again. _Twenty-seven holes._ "A shotgun," she uttered quietly, eyes wide. She examined the cloth even closer and saw the powder burns that darkened the entire area around the holes. That shocked her even more. The proof was irrefutable. Someone had shot her son in the chest with a shotgun at point blank range. 

With that realization came another disturbing thought. _For someone to come that close with a weapon…a gun…Clark must have known his attacker._ The thought stunned her and left her mentally staggering. But as the pieces began to come together and the picture became clearer, she realized that Clark must have hidden the evidence not only to protect himself, but also to protect his attacker. _But_ w_hy would he want to protect the identity of the person who tried to kill him? Who did shoot him?_

She didn't know the answers, and that only made the situation worse. The drive to protect her son was stronger than any other need in the world. Clark may not have been her flesh-and-blood son, but he was the child of her heart. She had to find out what had happened. She would not rest until she did.

And only one person could tell her the truth.

Clark. 

Mind firmly made up, she stood, the ruined shirt clenched in a tight fist and headed down the stairs to the kitchen, the glass still under the bed, the empty laundry basket completely forgotten. Her son would be home in a little over an hour, and they were going to have a talk about what she had found. Only then would she have her answers. Only then would she know if her son was truly safe or if he was still in danger.

TBC…. 


	2. Part Two

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: See part one. (Sorry, but I'm too lazy to write it again.)

Author's Note: Thank you very much for all of the reviews! You've really made me feel welcome in the _Smallville_ community. I'm sorry this has taken so long to get out, but I've had a couple of very busy weeks and have had little time to write. Anyway, here's the conclusion. Please, let me know what you think by taking a second to leave a review, or you can email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. All reviews and emails are greatly appreciated! Thanks!

This story takes place a few days after the events in "Nicodemus."

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Part Two

The hour and a half wait for Clark to return home from school was interminable, but somehow, by some miracle, she made it through. 

Truth be told, she had spent the first hour or so just standing in front of the screen door, looking out into the driveway, waiting for her son to come down the lane. She hadn't realized that she'd been there that long; it hadn't seemed like it. The chiming of the old grandfather clock in the living room alerted her to the time, and, feeling more anxious with each passing second, she walked stiffly over to the refrigerator, took out the milk and poured it into a glass that she'd absently grabbed from the cupboard. 

Memories of greeting Clark with a glass of milk after a long day at school ran through her mind like a silent movie, even though ten years had passed. His charming, innocent face would light up with a smile as he saw her, and then that same smile would turn into a grin when he saw the milk. _Milk – it does a body good_, she laughed as the milk slogan ran through her mind. _I don't think the milk producers would ever have expected one of their customers to become quite so strong or fast, though. Of course, in this case, the milk has nothing to do with it – only alien genes. But still…_

The thought trailed off as Clark's other strange abilities blew through her mind like a Kansas tornado: unbelievable strength, superhuman speed, x-ray vision, and…_Just say it, Martha, _she chastised herself, frustrated. _How can you expect to confront Clark with that shirt if you don't even have the guts to say that he is bulletproof? See? There it is…it's not so hard. _"Bullet-proof," she muttered, a grim determination masking her pleasant features. 

Turning around, she set the perilously full glass on the kitchen table, then walked around to sit on the other side where she had a perfect view of the screen door and the immediate area beyond. She snatched the ruined flannel shirt from the top of the wooden table and began to fold and twist it distractedly in her hands. She felt even more nervous than the time she'd first approached Jonathan Kent all those years ago at Metropolis University and asked to borrow his class notes. 

Tears welled up as her finger went all the way through one of the bullet holes, and she was forced to close her eyes and take several deep breaths to calm herself, trying to erase the terrifying image of her son standing in front of a smoking shotgun, clutching his chest and his bullet-riddled shirt. The last thing she wanted was for Clark to come home and find her crying and distraught at the table. _He's been through enough lately, nearly loosing his father, Lana, and Pete – all in the same day. I refuse to scare him any further! _

By the time a sudden, abrupt rush of wind gusted through the screen door signifying his arrival, she had managed to regain some semblance of control. Outwardly, she was the picture of calmness, though, if Clark had bothered to examine her face closely, he would have noticed a slight paleness and a general tightness around her bright eyes. Inwardly, she was a bundle of nerves, uncertain exactly how to broach the subject of the shirt she'd hidden in her lap under the table.

Her dark haired son opened the screen door and breezed through, smiling as he saw her. "Hey, Mom," he said as if he hadn't a care in the world. "How are you?"

"Clark…" She began and then hesitated, clenching the shirt tighter in her hands. "Son, we need to talk." She tried to sound nonchalant, but knew by the confused expression on his face that she hadn't quite succeeded. "Here, sit down. Have some milk." She unwrapped one hand from the shirt long enough to gesture to the chair across from her and the milk that waited there, tall and white, illuminated by the afternoon sun. 

"Mom? Is something wrong?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly in concern as he pulled out the wooden chair and sat down. "You haven't set milk out for me for years."

"It…it just seemed like the thing to do." The words sounded pitifully weak even to her own ears, and she instantly wished she'd said something – anything – different. She cringed, knowing that her lackluster response would only worry him more.

"Okay, now you're staring to scare me." Clark said jokingly, but she could tell that he meant it, despite the joking tone in which the words were spoken. She watched, dismayed, as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his right hand curling nervously about his glass. "It's not Dad, is it?" he asked suddenly. "He's not worse, is he? The doctors said that he was fine, that the Nicodemus flower's effects had been totally neutralized. He seemed okay – " 

"No, Clark," Martha interrupted the rush of words before her son could go any further. "No, your father's just fine. He's out in the barn looking over the tractor. I…this…this isn't about your father." 

He seemed to relax a bit at her reassuring words and leaned all the way back into his chair. "Well…okay," he said, uncertainty coloring his tone. "So. What do you want to talk about then?"

Swallowing hard, she began, "Clark, I – " but faltered after only two words, and she lowered her gaze to the table, absently examining the natural wood grain swirls that decorated it. All the time her mind was whirling with possible ways of how to approach the frightening subject with her son, but as the seconds passed, she scrapped each and every one. _What do I say? "Hi, Clark. I found this bullet-riddled shirt under your bed. Would you like to tell me who shot you?" Oh, now that would be real sensitive. "How did I find it? Well, I was snooping under your bed and just happened to find it." No, if I mention how I found it, he's going to go off on that subject and avoid what I really want to talk about in the first – _

"Mom?" She heard Clark's worried voice and slowly raised her head up to face him. "What's wrong?" 

She bit her lower lip as she gazed across the table at the young man. Clark pushed aside his glass of milk and settled both arms crisscrossed on the table, his clear blue-green eyes radiating both love and concern. _I hate to do this to him – force him to tell me something he doesn't want to, but I have to do it. I have to know – for all of us._ Still, the problem remained. How could she approach the subject? Closing her eyes for a few seconds, she finally decided on the best course of action. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she raised her eyes to meet Clark's and pulled the shirt out from under the table, laying the crumpled red fabric right in front of him on the table, waiting to see his reaction.

She didn't have long to wait.

Clark's eyes widened, and he jerked his arms back from the table, and, in a fraction of a second, had removed any part of his body that even remotely touched the wooden piece of furniture. He froze completely, staring at the shirt, his healthy tanned farmer's complexion fading to a pasty gray. His breathing sped up until it was coming in quick, shallow gasps that sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating.

For a few brief moments, she was reminded of her son's extreme reaction to the green meteor rocks that littered the county and just barely stopped herself from turning her eyes from Clark to scour the kitchen. The notion, however, was quickly dismissed. She and Jonathan had searched every square inch of their property to remove the threat to their child. There was no possible way that one of those rocks could be causing his reaction.

And that left only the shirt. 

"Clark?" she called his name softly, not wanting to startle him, but her voice seemed to have no effect on him. He didn't seem to hear her. She tried again – a little louder this time. "Clark? Honey, look at me." Still nothing. He didn't even blink, his eyes riveted on the small pile of cloth on the table, as if in a trance.

Now she was beyond concerned…she was afraid. The fear curled up in her chest and snaked up into her throat, threatening to choke her. "Clark! C'mon, son, look at me! Clark!" 

A wild, fleeting thought crossed her mind. She reached out and snatched the shirt back towards her with a shaking hand, not quite understanding why she did it – only knowing she had to. Call it intuition, mother's instinct, whatever – it didn't matter.

But it worked.

Clark's eyes snapped up to meet her own, and she swallowed hard, paralyzed at the sight of the overwhelming fear radiating from his wide, terrified eyes. It was a full minute before she could find her voice, and then she was left floundering helplessly for the right words. Yes, she wanted to know who had shot the teenager, but her son's health was foremost in her mind. Her voice quavered slightly when she finally spoke. "Clark…are you all right?"

His face darkened at the innocent question, and anger briefly flashed in his eyes. "Of course," he said bitterly, getting his rapid breathing under control. "Why wouldn't I be?"

_I wasn't talking about your physical well being, and you know it,_ she replied mentally. _Okay, Martha, just play along and see where this goes. _"I don't know," she stated simply. "I've never been shot before. And even if I had, I doubt the results would be quite the same."

He blinked, stunned by her honesty, and some of the biting anger drained from his voice. "No. I suppose not."

"So, back to the issue at hand – are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he shrugged, turning to his right to look out the kitchen window.

_Right, _she thought sarcastically. _Then why can't you look at me when you say it? _"You're not hurt, then?"

He hesitated just a fraction of a second before answering, "No," but it was a hesitation, nonetheless. 

"Okay. Then I guess you wouldn't mind telling me who shot you."

The quiet, nonchalant words abruptly stopped Clark's wandering gaze. After a small span of silence – in which the tension in the farmhouse skyrocketed – he shook his head negatively. "No."

Narrowing her gaze, she asked, "No, you wouldn't mind telling me, or no, you won't tell me?" Even as she spoke the words, she knew the answer. But she asked anyways…to be absolutely certain.

Staring at the floor, he just shook his head again.

She pursed her lips and thought for a minute. _'Actions speak louder than words.' Well, that saying fits this situation perfectly. He might just as well have shouted "No" at the top of his lungs._ Gazing at her son, she noticed the tense set of his shoulders and the stubborn set of his chin, just a couple of the more obvious signs that the information she was searching for would not be easy to find._ Now the hard part really begins._ She pushed back an errant lock of auburn hair behind one ear and took a silent, deep breath. "Or maybe you're trying to say that you don't know who shot you?" Now, she shook her head. "I don't believe that, Clark." she said firmly. "Why won't you tell me?"

There was no response. No words. No movement. Nothing. He stared intently at the kitchen floor.

Frustration began to build inside, but instead of pushing it down and boxing it up like she usually did, she allowed it to flow through her body, choosing to feed off the potent energy rather than fight and waste more energy trying to contain it. Holding the bullet-riddle shirt in one hand out for him to see, she watched as his eyes were instantly drawn to the piece of cloth. _At least that got his attention, _she thought with a bit of satisfaction. "Clark…who did this to you?"

He didn't reply.

"Look," she said, her voice rising. "Someone walked up to you and fired a shotgun into your chest at point-blank range – and nothing happened! That's bound to raise some questions, and we have to be prepared for them when the time comes. Why didn't you tell us? If you didn't want to tell me, you should have at least told your Father. How can we protect you if we don't know what's going on?"

Clark flinched, and after mentally playing back her words, so did she. _That's exactly what Jonathan told him when he found out about Lex investigating us. As if this isn't bad enough, I had to go and dredge up more bad memories. _She tried again. "This isn't going to just go away, son. Someone knows about you, about your secret. If that gets out, who knows what could – "

"That isn't going to happen," Clark cut her off mid-sentence. 

"How do you know? How many other people do you know that can be shot in the chest and not even bleed? It's bound to raise some suspicions."

"It won't, okay?" he shifted nervously in his seat, averting his eyes. "It won't be a problem. Now, just forget about it."

"I'm sorry, Clark, but I can't. And neither can you. You can't just pretend that this never happened – that you were never shot – no matter how hard you try or how badly you want to. It won't go away." 

"I said, FORGET IT!" the dark-haired young man shouted angrily, his clenched fists shaking where they lay on top of the table. "LEAVE IT ALONE!"

"NO!" she shouted right back "Who shot you? Who are you protecting?!"

Clark froze, his mouth open to yell something back, but nothing came out. His already pale complexion whitened still further, a feat she never would have dreamed possible, and his mouth hung open for another few heartbeats before it snapped shut with an audible _click_. She had a quick glimpse of his eyes, wide with roiling anger just a second before, now darken with indescribable pain before he lowered his head and shrank back into his seat, curling in on himself by hunching his shoulders.

Martha swallowed hard at the heart-wrenching image before her and blinked furiously at the moisture that suddenly filled her vision. She needed to know the answers to her questions – she had to for everyone's sake – but, oh, the cost! Knocking her strong, all but indestructible son down until he appeared forlorn and beaten was not what she'd intended. She hated to dig deeper when she could see how upset he was, but she knew that if she stopped now, she might never find out the truth. _I'm sorry, Clark, _she pleaded wordlessly. _I would never purposefully hurt you, but this is too important. I can't back down on this – it's for your own good. I hope you'll forgive me later._

"Clark, please," she spoke softly and slowly, though with an intensity that could not be disguised. "I know that you're covering for somebody, someone that you know, someone you…care about and trust. You'd never let a stranger get that close to you with a loaded gun, even with your special gifts. You're too smart for that." She paused for a few moments to let her words sink in.

She let the silence linger as she thought hard about all that had occurred in the last few days – Jonathan's accident, the Nicodemus plant infecting her husband, Lana, and Pete. The time she'd spent in the hospital watching over Jonathan, seeing him deteriorate so quickly…well, they were all jumbled together – feelings and images all overshadowed by a constant, relentless fear that threatened to suck the life out of her very bones and leave her in the same condition as her beloved husband. Bewilderment, helplessness, fear, even guilt had swirled around her like the deadly, violent Kansas twisters that barreled through every year. And just like the tornadoes, the feelings were unstoppable, a force of nature that refused to dissipate. She could hardly recall when Clark had been by her side and when he'd been gone trying to discover what had made her husband so ill. __

_Wait a second. _She ran back through what little she did remember from the hospital. Now that she thought about it, Clark had been unusually quiet…even withdrawn when he'd been around. _Could Clark's being shot be tied up somehow with the Nicodemus flower? _she wondered suddenly. _He was acting perfectly normal (well, what qualifies for normal with Clark) before the whole mess started. Could one of his friends have done this?_ She thought hard, trying to bring to mind the little that Clark had told her about the others' reactions. Lana had acted strangely, yes, but as far as she knew, she hadn't been the least bit violent. _Lana would never do anything like that – I'm sure of it. Of course, he never did come right out and tell me what she did do…but, no. She couldn't do that. _

And Pete? What had he told her about him? She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes to concentrate. _Pete…He was infected at the doctor's lab and…had stolen Chloe's car? No, that's what Lana had done – stolen Lex's car from the Talon. But I seem to remember hearing something about him taking Chloe's car, as well…_A deep frown crossed her face at her next thought. _Hold on a minute. When I saw Lex at the hospital, I remember he appeared to be in pain and had mentioned something about having a bit of a headache, but that it was nothing permanent – but that it could have been if Clark hadn't been there to help. And that was about the same time that Pete had been admitted. Could Pete have…?_

"Clark." Her voice cracked, and she was forced to clear her throat before she could speak again. "Clark…did…did Pete shoot you?" The words scorched her throat as she spoke, hating herself for even thinking that the honest, young, black man would ever do such a thing. After all, Pete and Clark had been best friends ever since Clark had started school so many years ago.

He shook his head, and she sighed in relief. 

_Okay, not Pete, thank God! Then who else?_ "Was it Lex?" she suggested quietly, although that thought hurt just as much. Her husband had nothing but contempt and distrust for the rich, young millionaire and had tried vehemently to persuade Clark to break off their friendship. But despite Lex's self-assuredness – what some might call 'arrogance' – the young man had never been anything but kind and courteous to both herself and Jonathan. Some people said that he was aloof and cold, but she read it as something quite different. Lonely and unable to form attachment to others, yes, but who could fault that when the boy's father was Lionel Luthor? 

He shook his head again, eyes still glued to the ground, and again, she sighed in relief.

She was fast running out of options, so she decided to ask him again, to see if she could coax him to reveal a name voluntarily. "Clark, please. Who shot you? Please, tell me, son. I'm your mother. I just want to help you. Please." 

Clark closed his eyes and shivered once convulsively, his dark hair falling onto his forehead, making his ghostly white complexion stand out even more. "I…I c-can't," he stuttered, voice trembling. "I …" His words trailed off as he hunched still further over in his seat, elbows on his knees, his unsteady hands covering his face and cradling his head. 

Martha got up from her seat, quickly sidestepped around the table, and knelt down in front of him on the wooden floor. She cautiously touched his knee. "Honey, you can tell me anything – you know that, don't you?" A strangled sob answered her, and she drew back slightly in alarm. _What on earth could have happened to make him feel this way? _

"N-no. You – you don't un-understand," he stammered, gripping his head hard with both hands as if he were physically holding his mind together.

Tears came unbidden to her eyes as she replied quietly, "I know. I know I don't understand. That's why I'm asking you to tell me what happened, to help me to understand. What could possibly be so terrible that you feel as if I wouldn't understand? There's nothing you can say that would make me feel any different about you. I love you. You're my son. You're more important to me than anything else in this world. I want to help you, but I can't unless you talk to me. Your father and I would do anything to help you."

At those words, Clark started to sob uncontrollably, shoulders shaking, his whole body shivering like a leaf caught in a strong gust of prairie wind, being tossed about violently. But mixed in among the agonized sobs were words, babbling words that she struggled to make out as she tenderly took him into her arms and held him, rubbing his back just like she had when he'd been little and had woken up from a nightmare. 

"I can't forg-get it," he moaned, "…every – every time I c-close my eyes, I see him, standing there…angry, he – he was so a-angry…unrecognizable…it wasn't him…it COULDN'T be him…not like that, not so…so – " he broke off what he was saying as his entire body shivered. Martha tightened her arms around and held him closer. "…I never thought…he would never sh-shoot me…he'd n-never harm any-anyone…never! I…I knew s-something was w-wrong, but…but I – I…" His broken voice finally stopped and the room fell quiet, the only audible noise the sound of the kitchen clock over the sink. 

Martha remained quiet as Clark cried silently in her arms, his head leaning against her chest even though his hands still covered his face. She could feel the warm tears dampening her shoulder and nearly shuddered herself at the pain her son was radiating, the agony he was feeling. After a while, his body stopped shaking, and he grew still. Slowly and carefully, her own eyes still damp, she pulled away from him, lovingly brushing the sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead, and gently tugged his hands down off his face. Cupping his tear-streaked face tenderly with both hands, she murmured, "Clark, look at me. Open your eyes. Let me see you, okay? Look at me."  

Ever so slowly his heavy eyelids lifted. The misery and agony in his eyes shredded her heart into a million tiny pieces. His haunted storm-tossed blue gaze sank deep into her soul, and she nearly turned away at his devastated visage.

But she didn't. Mothers don't turn away, even when they want to.

She looked straight into his eyes. "Who shot you, Clark?" she whispered.

"Please," he begged breathlessly, his eyes darkening still more with anguish, something she would have thought impossible. _How much pain can a person withstand?_ she asked herself.       

 

She shook her head, and he closed his tortured eyes, trying to hide his face again but she refused to let him. "Clark," she whispered, pausing for emphasis, "Who shot you?"

Crystalline tears began to leak from beneath his tightly clenched eyelids, his body beginning to tremble again under her strong hands. She didn't think he'd answer – he hadn't before. But then he opened his mouth and uttered a single word that chilled her to her very soul.

"Dad."

She froze, staring at her son, mind stubbornly blank, too stunned to think. "What?" she gasped. 

The tears fell, but this time he didn't sob, his body too exhausted – too drained – to muster the energy to really cry. "It was Dad. Dad shot me," he said, voice devoid of any emotion…except weariness. 

Martha could only look on in shock and listen with a frozen soul as her son quietly recounted what had happened in a halting voice. "I saw him barreling through town in the truck, driving like a crazy man, swerving, yelling. That…it wasn't normal so I followed him. He stopped right behind the bank – I got there right as he was leaving the truck. He…he had a shotgun. I tried to stop him, to talk to him, but he was acting all weird, saying…things…that didn't make any sense. He tried to go into the bank with the gun, Mom. I – I couldn't let him do that. So I tried to take…take the gun away." 

He took a deep, hitching breath and opened his eyes to look her full in the face, his gaze filled with bewilderment and pain, a lost, hurt, little boy looking for his mother to tell him what he'd done wrong. "He shot me, Mom. He just – pulled the trigger and _BAMM_! It – it – I was shoved back a couple of feet. For a second, I didn't know what had happened, what had hit me." He stopped for a second and stared off into space, his right hand moving towards his chest, absently fingering the fabric. "I…I touched my chest and found…holes…in my shirt. I could smell the gunpowder – feel the holes. I'd been shot. I'd been shot by my own Dad."

"Oh, Clark," she breathed and wrapped her arms around him again, and this time he returned the hug and clung to her, pressing his face into her chest. "Oh, sweetie…I'm so sorry…so very, very sorry," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me?"

"How could I?" he countered, words muffled against her chest. "He collapsed just a few seconds later, and I rushed him to the hospital. I grabbed a jacket from the truck and put it on over my shirt. Didn't want to give the doctor or you a heart-attack, right?" he said lightly, trying to joke, but the words fell flat. "I was…dazed, confused. I didn't know what to think, what to say. And how could I tell you when Dad was lying there in that hospital bed dying? That wouldn't have been the most ideal time."

"I should have seen it, should have noticed something was wrong. I should have – you shouldn't have had to suffer in silence like that." Her voice quavered as she squeezed him tighter, thanking God that her son was special, that he was bulletproof. If it had been anybody else but him…If he hadn't been able to stop Jonathan from going into the bank…_Don't even think of that, Martha. It didn't happen. No, _she answered sarcastically, _he just shot his own son. Isn't that bad enough? _

"Mom, you were worried for Dad – we both were," he reassured her, and she was forced to press her lips tightly to keep from sobbing out loud at the depth of her son's love. Even after all that had happened to him, all that he'd suffered, he was still trying to comfort her and take away any blame that she might feel. "I knew that something was wrong, but I just didn't know what. When we finally figured out about the Nicodemus flower and that he'd been infected, well…at least I had a reason then. And I knew that he couldn't control what he'd done. I can understand that…but it still hurts, Mom." She could feel him swallow hard. "It hurts so much."

"Shhhh, it's okay," she soothed, her hands rubbing up and down his back. "I know it know it hurts, honey, but it'll be okay. We're going to get through this." The silence settled around them, but this time it was a healing, reassuring silence, one that enfolded them as tenderly as a pair of loving arms and comforted them.

Finally, Clark broke the silence. "I was so relieved when I found out that he didn't remember anything." He pulled back from her and, reluctantly, she let him. "This would kill him, Mom. We can't tell him. He can never know that this happened. Never. Promise me you won't tell him. I just want to forget this whole thing ever happened. Promise me, Mom. Promise me you'll never tell him." He searched her eyes closely, his weary, pale face utterly serious.

_He's right_, she admitted, her stomach knotting just at the thought of her husband finding out what had happened. _The guilt would tear him apart – he'd never be the same. He wouldn't look at Clark the same way ever again. It would destroy our family._ She hated to keep secrets from him, but in this case, it was definitely for the best. So, nodding solemnly, she agreed. "I promise, Clark. I promise I'll never tell him." She paused briefly, before she went on. "But I want you to promise me something, too."

He cocked his head and frowned slightly at her, plainly curious as to what she was going to say. "Okay."

She took a deep breath. "I want you to promise that if you ever feel like talking about this, that you'll come and find me, no matter when, no matter where. This won't go away over night, honey. If it starts to bother you, or even if you're just thinking about it, promise that you'll talk to me and not bottle it up inside. You've gone through a very traumatic ordeal, son, but I want you to know that I'll always be here for you. Always. Do you understand?"

Clark's blue-green eyes were shimmering with unshed tears as he nodded, but, more than that, they were glistening with something that hadn't been there when she'd started this whole painful conversation: hope. He gave her a tremulous smile as he replied, "Yeah. I promise, Mom."

"That's all I ask. Now," she added briskly, straightening up stiffly from where she'd been kneeling on the floor. "I think it's time we got rid of the evidence. What do you say? Think we should burn it?"

Face breaking into a grin, the dark-haired young man rose from his seat. "Perfect. I couldn't have thought of a better way myself." His eyebrows raised, he asked slyly, "Say, you know an awful lot about doing this. Have you committed some other crime that you've kept hidden from us all this time?"

"Clark!" she swatted his shoulder in mock anger as they opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. "How could you ever accuse your dear mother of something like that? Do you really think I could do that?" 

"Why not?" he teased. "You hid my spaceship, didn't you?" He laughed aloud as she whacked him a second time, and she grinned back at him, more relieved than she would ever admit at hearing him laugh again, after everything that had happened. 

"Well, technically, your father hid the ship," she confessed, laughing at the thought, as they made their way down the steps of the porch. "I was just the look out." 

THE END


End file.
